


Over Breakfast

by BenevolentErrancy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: And A Breakfast Sandwich, First Meetings, Gen, Humour, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 10:26:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10829379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenevolentErrancy/pseuds/BenevolentErrancy
Summary: McCree has made it through years of radio silence, life as an outlaw (again), a clandestine Recall of Overwatch agents who'd scattered to the winds, and, most recently, two time changes and a midnight arrival in Gibraltar in order to respond to said Recall.What he might not survive though is the following morning.If this new visitor doesn't kill him, the breakfast sandwich might.





	Over Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> This is a silly drabble because ~~I'm hungry~~ I'm finally done school for the semester and I wanted to do something quick and fun.  
>  Gotta love tumultuous first meetings :)

“Breakfast, McCree?” boomed Reinhardt’s voice from the vicinity of the kitchen that McCree was blearily shuffling into.

“You’re a good man, Reinhardt,” he said vaguely as he slumped down against the kitchen table.  He wasn’t normally this groggy in the morning, but two time changes and a midnight arrival could take the vim right out of a man.

Reinhardt chuckled good-naturedly, and under the comforting dimness of his hat McCree listened to the sounds of Reinhardt navigating the kitchen.  In enclosed, domestic spaces like this, Reinhardt always seemed like he was too _big_ to possible be able to fit.  Bulls and china shops tended to spring to mind.  It always seemed that Reinhardt, if he was to cook, should be outside at some great bonfire as ancient gods watched on, or at the head of an enormous banquet hall – somewhere with _elbow_ room.

Or perhaps it went to show how sleepy McCree was though if he was being _that_ fanciful.  After all Reinhardt was just an ordinary man, same as him. …Well, what with standing about a foot and a half taller than even McCree’s very respectable five foot eleven perhaps not _quite_ the same, but still.  In any case, the assumption would be inaccurate as Reinhardt moved his massive body around the kitchen with familiar ease, and frankly, celestial bonfire or no, he was one of the better cooks out of the old crew, as far as McCree could remember.  Certainly better than old Jack Morrison.

He told Reinhardt as much; sleep deprivation had never been kind to his mental filters, and in any case it didn’t hurt to keep a cook happy.

Reinhardt seemed pleased, at least.  “It was bad enough with you lot, back in the day,” he told McCree.  There was the sound of a plate being drawn as the griddle gave off the enticing sounds of bubbling grease.  “At least Overwatch had proper cooks.  Travelling with Brigitte…”  He gave his head a dismal shake.  “Girl would live off engine oil if she could, I reckon.  Had to keep her fed up; she wouldn’t be able to tell a spatula from a flathead.  'Course, she said the same to me after she saw what my repairs looked like to the old Crusader,” he added with a laugh.

A plate was dropped into McCree’s periphery.  It came with the mouthwater smell of fried meat and ketchup and a lot of things that made McCree’s heart flipflop in concern.  Hopefully Angela wouldn’t look unkindly on clogged arteries.

“Thanks,” McCree said, fighting his tired body into the approximation of an upright position.

“Think nothing of it!” said Reinhardt.  “It is nice to have someone else up in the mornings again!  I will join you again soon, after I’ve rousted Brigitte.”

McCree nodded, but his focus was already divided by the breakfast sandwich he had been delivered.  This sort of distraction was not something Reinhardt would ever find rude – his breakfast sandwiches _deserved_ careful consideration.  Or, rather, demanded it.  Tackling a proper Wilhem breakfast sandwich was trickier than some ops McCree had run for Blackwatch over the years.  For one, they tended to as tall as a man’s face, and the man in question was Reinhardt.  Short of unhinging your jaw, eating one was a test of all your merit, but it certainly ensured you were awake by the time you were done – it was either wake up, or choke on a stray strand of bacon that had sensed your lack of focus and attacked.

Gather his courage, McCree clamped his hands around the beast and bravely marched into battle.  He bit into it, teeth fighting through bun and meat and egg.  The egg squirted back in violent retaliation.

The groan that came from his mouth was verging on vulgar.  Had he not been the only person in the room, it may have needed to be censored. _This_ was cooking.  Oh, he’d always enjoyed breakfast, breakfast was a meal that could be eaten at any hour of the day, and any good eatery made sure this was an option, as far as McCree was concerned.  This, though, put all the roadside diners he’d stopped in over the past few years to shame. For one, since this was Reinhardt and he had Feelings about this sort of thing, it would certainly only use named meat – and not names like Spot or Trixie.  There would be no raccoon-and-leftover-roadkill mystery mix in this sandwich, oh no.  McCree could feel the snap of the slightly blackened bacon as it was crushed mouthwatering fried tomatoes and thick slabs of pig.  And McCree did identify it as _pig_ not _pork_ , because with how thickly it was sliced all it needed was a curly tail and it could nearly be the whole animal.  The grease tap-danced across McCree tongue only to turn around and tango with the melted cheese.  Then came the _gloop_. Another important feature of any Wilhelm Breakfast Sandwich was the _egg_.  It _gushed_. A solid egg yolk was an offense to Reinhardt’s sensibilities and he would consider any breakfast sandwich that didn’t leave your hands positively yellow an abject failure.  You couldn’t bring any shame to the table when you ate a Wilhelm Breakfast Sandwich – that got checked at the door and replaced with pure, blissful appetite.

The only thing that distracted from McCree’s whole-hearted concentration was the sound of light footsteps from out in the hall.  Lena, McCree identified immediately.  She was the only one with a tread that light who’d be up at this hour.  He grinned broadly at her as the door open, thrilled to see an old friend again for the first time in years.  He gave a little wave with the sandwich – partly in welcome, partly to show the breakfast that awaited her if she found Reinhardt, and partly because if you put this sort of sandwich down after you started eating it it would inevitably explode.

Lena didn’t wave back.  This was largely because the person that entered the room was not, in fact, Lena.  It wasn’t actually anyone that McCree knew.  He gawked.

Vaguely, he could remember Winston mentioning that another plane was due to arrive shortly after McCree’s, but that introductions would have to wait until the morning.

It would appear introductions couldn’t wait any longer.

The man stood in the doorway and stared at McCree.  He wasn’t particularly tall, but you wouldn’t be able to tell at a glance – he had the sort of stance that made him look like the tallest person in the room until he stood next to someone.  Probably had something to do with the fact you had the feeling he was looking down his nose at you, even when he was looking up.  McCree couldn’t tell much else about his body, since unlike McCree or Reinhardt he wasn’t in his pajamas.  Instead he was fully dressed in a heavy jacket, pants, and boots.  His face though, well, McCree could tell a _lot_ about that face, and most of it went to the tune of _hot damn_.  It was a proud face. Black lashes and thick brows, an imperious nose and sharp mouth.  You could shave off this man’s angles.  His hair was black and silky looking, shaved at the sides, and it all tapered into a neat beard.

McCree was also suddenly very aware of the fact that there was runny yolk dribbling down his wrist and ketchup smeared from the tip of his nose to the tip of his beard.

Well fuck.

“Mmph m'lo,” McCree attempted to say, in a valiant attempt to make this horrible moment that had slowed down to glacial speeds pass a little quicker. The fact that he sprayed bread crumbs as he spoke probably didn’t help.  He frantically tried to swallow what was in his mouth, but the sandwich could sense weakness and took the opportunity to try to choke him.

“…Hello,” said the man.  He was edging along the wall towards the kitchen cabinets, leaving a wide berth between himself and McCree, as if he thought slobbery gluttony was contagious.  Or maybe he was just trying to stay out of the splash zone.

McCree figured at this point his best opportunity would be jumping headfirst out the window and testing his lucks against the rocky cliffs beyond.  It would probably be a softer reception than this stranger’s put-off, stony silence.

“Hanzo?  Oh, good, you found the kitchen.  Take whatever you– oh, hey, McCree.”

There was no god in this world.

“'Lo, Genji,” mumbled McCree, giving up.  So it must have been Genji’s plane that got in last night.  And that meant… Hanzo… _that_ Hanzo.

McCree tried to say something, but the shock and outrage got trapped up in the cheese and bacon and instead he mostly just gurgled indecipherable noises.   _This_ was Hanzo?  THIS was _Hanzo_? This was the two-faced, snaky bastard that fucked Genji up?  This was  _that_ bastard? McCree had mostly hoped he’d never meet this Hanzo, mostly because he would have much prefer it if the man had had the decency to die in a ditch, like he had tried to do to his brother, but if McCree _did_ ever meet Hanzo, he’d had every intention to try to kill him.  He’d vaguely imagined an epic showdown, telling the cowardly pile of cowshit exactly what McCree thought of him and finally putting him down, avenging his friend.

In no scenario did this involve him being rendered inarticulate on breakfast meat.  He tried his best regardless.

Hanzo just cast Genji a desperate, beseeching look.   _Who is this madman and how do I stop him talking to me?_ the look said.

Pure, unadulterated fury finally conquered the breakfast sandwich and with a gag McCree was able to swallow what had been waging war in the back of his throat, and he tossed down the rest of the sandwich.  It exploded, but so did McCree.

“ _You!_ ” he snarled, having nothing much better to say, as he leaped from his chair and gestured a threatening finger.  Yolk _glooped_ off the end of it onto the floor.

“You rather missed your chance, McCree,” said Genji, dryly.  “The effect’s somewhat lost.”

“That’s not my fault he barged in on me!” cried McCree.  “Why is he even _here_?  What is going on?  Did he kidnap you?”

Given that Genji’s face was hidden behind a flat, unresponsive faceplate, the look he gave McCree was an impressively withering one.

“Yes.  He kidnapped me.  Which is why I am standing here.  Kidnapped.”

McCree mentally backpedaled and tried to reshape this entire scenario in a way that made sense.  Genji was here.  He seemed to want to be here. Hanzo was here, and he couldn’t be here if someone hadn’t brought him here, presumably Genji.  Genji was not actively trying to kill Hanzo, which was perhaps the bit that baffled McCree the most.  Genji’s normal range of emotions, as far as he remembered, had a tendency to slide between _generally pissed off at the world_ and _furious at his brother specifically_. Actually, everything considered, this was the most mellow he thought he’d ever seen Genji which didn’t make any sense since his brother was, as of this moment, standing right next to him.

“Overwatch needs people.  Hanzo has offered his services,” said Genji, finally taking pity on McCree’s baffled expression.

“But he tried to kill you?” said McCree weakly.

Hanzo shifted uncomfortably.  The bastard.

“Oh right, I’d nearly forgotten,” said Genji.

“We have… reconnected, since then,” said Hanzo, awkwardly.

McCree stared openly.  This was too much to process on the little sleep he’d had. So he took the only option that seemed reasonable at the moment: he punched Hanzo square in the face.

Genji screamed at him, but Hanzo, not expecting the misfirings of McCree’s sleepy brain, collapsed with a crash to the ground.  McCree stood dazedly surrounded by Shimadas, shaking his sore fist.  His scattered sandwich had since congealed into something indigestible, which seemed like a real shame, he thought distantly while Genji shook him angrily by the shoulder and shouted.

It was going to be a long morning.


End file.
